Four Ways to Lose my Soul
by Kodiak Bear Country
Summary: One situation, five different possible outcomes. [title is cutoff]


Title: Four Ways to Lose my Soul, and One Shot at Redemption  
Author: Kodiakbear  
Rating: T+  
Word count: 5,900 +  
Warnings: Mature themes, character death, not permanent.  
Summary: One situation, five different possible outcomes.  
AN: There are a lot of things in this story, little details, and it builds with each scenario, so read carefully. Beta: gaffer, Linzi and Jennifer. Thanks to discussions with Linzi and Jennifer, this story stretched and changed into a lot more than it was the first time. It was a plot that struck me before bed last night, so I stayed up till two AM working on it, then off and on this morning revising it. Feedback welcome.

**Four Ways to Lose my Soul, and One Shot at Redemption**  
By Kodiakbear

**I.**

"So, I like baseball," John says conversationally. "You?"

The solemn face regards him for a moment, before shaking no. The stuffed toy clutched in the thin arms reminds Sheppard of bedtimes and pajamas. He smiles, but it's tight, and painful. "Guess you don't talk much."

The small chin wobbles.

"No, no – don't cry." Searching for a towel, or a blanket, or something, John slides closer to the child. He settles for his t-shirt, and dabs the wet trails from small cheeks. "It's okay," he soothes. "Really. I'll do all the talking for us, deal?"

Thin wisps of hair bob along with the fragile head.

Standing, John paces the small room. "Not much of a life out here." He knows he's talking to himself. Trying to find an answer. "What, with the Wraith hanging over your head – guess it's a long way from worrying about coloring on the walls or swinging on the bar in your closet and being caught." He knows he won't find the answers.

There are no windows in the small mud hut. A grass roof, small bed and a dirt floor. The bamboo door is frail, but John knows the guards on the other side are not. He realizes the child is tracing his path, back and forth, wide almond eyes drinking every movement in.

Smiling again, more honestly this time, John walks near and kneels. The eyes stare, unblinking. "I guess you've seen a lot." His right hand moves to brush back the unruly bangs of blonde hair. "Elizabeth would eat you up."

This time the child reacts. The small nose scrunches and John almost laughs. "It's a figure of speech. I meant – she'd like you, a lot."

The small face tilts curiously towards him, and tiny fingers reach for the pistol on his thigh. John reacts, angry – at himself, at the situation. "Don't touch that." Fingers pull back as if touched by cold death itself, and the child shakes.

"No – don't…" God. Don't cry – but John knows the kid should. He rises enough to turn, and sits beside the diminutive body. "I don't know why I'm telling you to stop," he says. "Maybe you've got the right idea in the first place."

A small hand creeps across his knee, and John looks away from his boots, searching the little face for an explanation. This time the head nods yes, and a shy smile breaks through like a sun in a sky with clouds. But it only drives the hurt in harder, the sunbeams turning to stakes of guilt. Slowly, John covers the hand with his own, dwarfing the child's. "God forgive me," he whispers.

Later, restrained, he watches as his team is led into the center of the village. Ronon faces it with defiance, Teyla, with calm acceptance, and Rodney – John can't look at Rodney. The shots fire, and though each one finds a mark far away from John, he feels them rip into him, and leave a jagged wound that will claim his soul. When it's over, the child takes his hand, and leads him, broken, to the circle of stars, his pistol with the single unused bullet still strapped to his thigh.

**II.**

"So, I like baseball and Ferris Wheels," John says conversationally. "You?"

The solemn face regards him for a moment, before shaking no. The stuffed toy clutched in the thin arms reminds Sheppard of bedtimes and pajamas. He smiles, but it's tight, and painful. "Guess you don't talk much, but that's okay – I hear enough talking every day."

The small chin wobbles.

"No, no – don't cry." He's never been good with crying kids. Searching for a towel, or a blanket, or something, John slides closer to the child. He settles for his t-shirt, and dabs the wet trails from the small cheeks. "It's okay," he soothes. "Really. I'll do all the talking for us, deal? And I'll even tell you a story."

Thin wisps of hair bob along with the fragile head. The child can't be more than six years old.

Standing, John paces the small room. "Not much of a life out here – but I guess you know that." He knows he's talking to himself. Trying to find an answer - a solution that doesn't end in death. "What, with the Wraith hanging over your head – guess it's a long way from worrying about coloring on the walls or swinging on the bar in your closet and being caught." He knows he won't find the answers. "I got grounded once for that," John says. When the child frowns, his smile slips. "Grounded – punished." The frown smoothes away as the child makes the connection.

It was a mistake, coming here. Teyla had warned them. Told them that the Kessel people were not to be trusted. As his eyes catch the child's, he knows he should've listened. John looks away.

There are no windows in the small mud hut. A grass roof, small bed and a dirt floor. The bamboo door is frail, but John knows the guards on the other side are not, especially armed with P-90's, courtesy of Earth, Atlantis and stupid trusting Colonels. He realizes the child is tracing his path, back and forth, wide almond eyes drinking every movement in. It'd be easier for him if they wouldn't. Eye contact is personal. Someone once said the eyes are the windows into the soul.

Smiling again, more honestly this time, John walks near and kneels. It's not the kid's fault. The eyes stare, unblinking, and too trusting. "I guess you've seen a lot in your short life." His right hand moves to brush back the unruly bangs of blonde hair. "Elizabeth would eat you up like a chocolate bar."

This time the child reacts. Disgust at the comparison that the child barely gets, small nose scrunching and John almost laughs. "It's a figure of speech. I meant – she'd like you, a lot." John knows every one on Atlantis would like this child.

The small face tilts curiously towards him, and tiny fingers reach for the pistol on his thigh. Jerking backwards, John reacts, angry – at himself, at the situation. "Don't touch that." Fingers pull back as if touched by cold death itself, and the child shakes. It strikes him, the juxtaposition of innocence and reality.

"No – don't…" God. He doesn't want the child to cry again – but even as he says it, John knows the kid should. He rises enough from his knees to turn, and sits beside the diminutive body. "I don't know why I'm telling you to stop," he says. "Maybe you've got the right idea in the first place."

A small hand creeps across his knee, and John looks away from his scuffled dirty boots, searching the little face for an explanation of the tentative touch. This time the head nods yes, and a shy smile breaks through like a reticent sun in a sky with heavy clouds. But it only drives the hurt in like a hammer, harder and deeper, the sunbeams turning to stakes of guilt. Slowly, John covers the hand with his own, dwarfing the child's and feeling the warmth. "God forgive me," he whispers, even as he knows he can't forgive himself.

As dawn arrives, John slips the sleeping child's head from his lap. The bamboo door is opening, and he takes his chance, firing the one bullet he was given into the nearest body. He gets five steps from the door before shots ring out, and his body lights up in agony. As he falls to the ground, everything is now framed in a sideways vision hazed with red mist, and he watches as his team, restrained in the village center and waiting for the word from the Shaman, is summarily executed because of his actions. The final sight is the child kneeling beside him, reaching for his face.

**III.**

"So, I like baseball and Ferris Wheels, and things that go faster than a hundred miles per hour," John says conversationally. "You?"

The solemn face regards him for a moment - confused, before shaking no. The tattered stuffed toy clutched tightly in the thin arms reminds Sheppard of bedtimes and pajamas. He smiles, but it's tight, and painful, because this little one has never known the ignorance of danger. "Guess you don't talk much, but that's okay – I hear enough talking every day. This guy I work with, he talks enough for both of us."

The small chin wobbles, and the eyes scrunch together.

"No, no – don't cry. Please don't cry." He's never been good with crying kids. Searching for a towel, or a blanket, or something, John slides closer to the child. Coming up with nothing, he settles for his t-shirt, and dabs the wet trails from the small flushed cheeks. "It's okay," he soothes, pulling the thin shoulders closer. "Really. I'll do all the talking for us, deal? And I'll even tell you a story." John thinks quickly. "Once upon a time – didn't you know every good fairy tale starts with 'once upon a time'?"

The rosy-red lips curl in a weak smile. Thin wisps of hair move along with the fragile head. The child can't be more than six years old, if that. "There was a space pilot, and all he wanted to do was fly -"

Later, John paces the small room. "Not much of a life out here – but I guess you know that." He knows he's talking to himself. Trying to find an answer – a solution that doesn't end in death. His. The child's. His team. "What, with the Wraith hanging over your head – guess it's a long way from worrying about coloring on the walls or swinging on the bar in your closet and being caught." He knows he won't find the answers, because his solutions are limited to what he was given. "I got grounded once for that," John says. When the child frowns, his smile slips. The child doesn't understand what it means. "Grounded – punished." The frown smoothes away as the child makes a personal connection to the definition.

It was a mistake, coming here. Teyla had warned them, but they needed the ZPM. She'd told them that the Kessel people were not to be trusted, that they had odd customs and were a secretive people. As his eyes catch the child's, he knows he should've listened, because then he wouldn't be here. John looks away. The child would be.

There are no windows in the small mud hut, but he knows it's still night. A grass roof to keep the weather out, a small bed for sleeping, and a dirt floor. The bamboo door lets the wind whistle in. It's frail, but John knows the guards on the other side are not, especially armed with P-90's, courtesy of Earth, Atlantis and stupid trusting Colonels. He realizes the child is tracing his path, back and forth – four steps across, those wide almond eyes drinking every movement in.

Smiling again, more honestly but sadder this time, John walks nearer and kneels. The eyes return his stare, unblinking and brave. "I guess you've seen a lot in your short life. It shouldn't have to be that way." His right hand moves to brush back the unruly bangs of blonde hair. "Elizabeth would eat you up like a chocolate bar. She's got a thing for sweets."

This time the child noticeably reacts. Disgust at the comparison wrinkles the pale forehead - the small nose scrunches, and John almost laughs. "It's a figure of speech. I meant – she'd like you, a lot." John knows every one on Atlantis would like this child, including himself.

"_The sacrifice awaits you, Colonel Sheppard."_

John remembers handing over their weapons at the start of the ceremony. A feast, they'd said. To honor their Gods. But their Gods were Wraith, and the honor culminated in an act that he couldn't wrap his mind around. It'd been obvious then that he'd allowed his team to waltz into dangerous ground, and he'd stood, waving at his team to follow suit, hoping for a quick retreat.

"_We need to let our leader know that everything has gone…well. When we get back, we'll be more than happy to finish the ceremony."_

The small heart-shaped face tilts curiously towards him, and tiny fingers reach for the black pistol on his thigh. Jerking backwards from the contact, John reacts, angry – at himself, at the situation. "Don't touch that, it's very dangerous." Fingers pull guiltily back as if touched by ashen death itself, and the child shakes with scared emotion. It strikes him, the painful juxtaposition of innocence and cold reality.

"No – don't…I'm sorry -" God. He doesn't want the child to cry again, because of him – but even as he says it, John knows the kid should; has every right to cry. He rises enough from his aching knees to turn, and sits beside the diminutive body, wishing he could fix this. "I don't know why I'm telling you to stop," he says. "Maybe you've got the right idea in the first place."

A small hand creeps tentatively across his knee, and John looks away from his scuffled, dirt-laden boots, searching the little face for an explanation of the hesitant touch. This time the head nods yes slowly, and a shy smile breaks through like a reticent sun in a sky scudded with heavy clouds. But it only drives the hurt in like a jackhammer, harder and deeper, the sunbeams of hope turning to stakes of guilt. Slowly, John covers the frail hand with his own, dwarfing the child's and feeling the warmth. "God forgive me. I wish there was another way out," he whispers, even as he knows he can't forgive himself. He only hoped his team could forgive.

When the guards come for him, he waits long enough to see the door open, and his team being led to the village center. Time slows, and they share a final moment unhindered by those around. John smiles – his soul for theirs, and lifts his pistol, swiftly pushing it to his temple and pulling the trigger.

**IV.**

"So, I like baseball, Ferris Wheels, and things that go faster than a hundred miles per hour – though I do, from time to time, like the slow rides," John says conversationally. "What about you?"

The solemn face regards him quietly for a moment - confused, before shaking no. The tattered stuffed toy, brown fur rubbed away in spots, was clutched tightly in the thin arms. It reminds Sheppard of bedtimes and pajamas, cookies and milk, and exciting stories. He smiles, but it's tight, and painful, because this little one has never known the ignorance of danger. John knows the innocence was lost years ago. "Guess you don't talk much, but that's okay – I hear enough talking every day. This guy I work with, he talks enough for both of us. His name is Rodney."

The small chin wobbles, and the eyes scrunch together, the face betraying the meltdown about to arrive.

"No, no – don't cry. Please don't cry. You'll make me cry." He's never been good with crying kids. Searching for a towel, or a blanket, or something – he imagines Kleenex hasn't made it out this far, John slides closer to the child. Coming up with nothing, he settles reluctantly for his t-shirt, and dabs the wet dirty trails from the small flushed cheeks. "It's okay, see, I'm not crying," he soothes, pulling the thin shoulders closer and wishing Teyla was here. "Really, it's not that bad, I promise." Except it was. "I'll do all the talking for us, deal? And I'll even tell you a story." John thinks quickly about a popular kid's story from back home. "Once upon a time – didn't you know every good fairy tale starts with 'once upon a time'? And they always end with 'happily ever after'."

The rosy-red lips curl in a weak smile, though the face portrays skepticism. Thin wisps of hair move along with the fragile head. The child can't be more than six years old, if that. Maybe four. "There was a space pilot, and all he wanted to do was fly – but there was a jealous cowboy, and he threw the space pilot out the window…"

Later, John paces the small room, needing to walk off excess energy. "Not much of a life out here – but I guess you know that. Kids back home got it good, and they don't even realize it." He knows he's talking to himself. Trying to find an answer – a solution that doesn't end in death. His. The child's. His team. And John's coming up empty with every idea. "What, with the Wraith hanging over your head – guess it's a long way from worrying about coloring on the walls or swinging on the bar like a monkey in your closet and being caught." He knows he won't find the answers, because his solutions are limited to what he was given. John wishes they hadn't given him anything. "I got grounded once for that," John says wryly, remembering how pissed his Dad had been to find the rod broken. When the child frowns, his smile slips. The child doesn't understand what it means; the frame of reference wasn't there. "Grounded – punished. Bad." The frown smoothes away as the child makes a personal connection to the definition.

It was a big mistake, coming here. Teyla had warned them, but they needed the ZPM. She'd told them that the Kessel people were not to be trusted, that they had odd customs and were a secretive people. If it hadn't been for the damn promise of power and safety for the city - if. As his eyes catch the child's, he knows he should've listened, because then he wouldn't be here. John looks away. The child would be, and someone else other than him.

There are no windows in the small dark mud hut, but he knows it's still night. A flat grass roof to keep the weather out, a small bed with a mattress made of straw for sleeping, and a hard-packed dirt floor. The yellowed bamboo door lets the chill wind whistle through the cracks. It's frail, but John knows the burly guards on the other side are not, especially armed with P-90's, courtesy of Earth, Atlantis and stupid trusting Colonels that regret ever setting foot on this planet. He realizes the child is tracing his path, back and forth – four steps across, those wide brown almond eyes drinking every movement in.

Smiling again, more honestly but sadder this time, John walks nearer to the child and kneels. The sober eyes return his stare, unblinking and brave. "I guess you've seen a lot in your short life. It shouldn't have to be that way. You should be eating cotton candy and dreaming about ponies." His right hand moves to gently brush back the unruly bangs of dirty blonde hair. "Elizabeth would eat you up like a chocolate bar. She's got a thing for sweets."

This time the child noticeably reacts, and he supposes not everything is lost in the translation. Disgust at the comparison wrinkles the pale forehead - the small nose scrunches, and John almost laughs. There for a moment, the child almost looked typical instead of haunted. "It's a figure of speech. I meant – she'd like you, a lot." John knows every one on Atlantis would like this child, including himself. He thinks he already does.

"_The sacrifice awaits you, Colonel Sheppard."_

John remembers handing over their weapons at the start of the ceremony. It was part of their tradition, a common courtesy. A feast, they'd said. To honor their Gods. But their Gods were Wraith, and the honor culminated in an act that he couldn't wrap his mind around. Didn't want to wrap his mind around. It'd been obvious then that he'd allowed his team to waltz into dangerous ground, and he'd stood, waving at his team to follow suit, hoping for a quick retreat. John should've known better.

"_We need to let our leader know that everything has gone…well. When we get back, we'll be more than happy to finish the ceremony."_

"_I'm sorry, Colonel. Once the ceremony is underway, there is no delaying."_

He'd been sorry, too. Especially when he'd realized they were screwed. No weapons, no way out, and only death offered options. Sighing, John notices the small heart-shaped face tilts curiously towards him, and tiny fingers reach for the black pistol on his thigh. Jerking backwards from the unwanted contact, John reacts, angry – at himself, at the situation. "Don't touch that, it's very dangerous. It could hurt you." Fingers pull away guiltily as if touched by ashen death itself, and the child shakes with scared emotion. It strikes him, the painful juxtaposition of innocence and cold reality. And he's helpless against it all.

"No – don't…I'm sorry -" God. Everything was going wrong. He doesn't want the child to cry again, because of him – but even as he says it, John knows the kid should; has every right to cry, he only wishes he could. John rises enough from his aching knees to turn, and sits beside the diminutive body, wishing he could fix this. "I don't know why I'm telling you to stop," he says, surprised at his admission. "Maybe you've got the right idea in the first place."

A small hand creeps tentatively across his sore knee, and John looks away from his scuffled, dirt-laden boots, searching the little face for an explanation of the hesitant touch. This time the head nods yes slowly, and a shy smile breaks through like a reticent sun in a sky scudded with heavy clouds of gray. But it only drives the hurt in like a jackhammer, harder and deeper, the sunbeams of hope turning to stakes of guilt. Slowly, John covers the frail hand with his own, dwarfing the child's and feeling the warmth. "God forgive me. I wish there was another way out," he whispers, even as he knows he can't forgive himself. He only hoped his team could forgive.

"_Either way, someone dies. By your hand, or ours. If you fail to perform the sacrifice, know that your team shall pay the price. It is a grave dishonor, and ill, that you do our people – the sacrifice has kept our people protected for many thousands of years. We will extract payment for the crime you cause against our future generations."_

They gave him his pistol back. The clip emptied but for one bullet. And the real kicker of the situation was what John saw in the eyes of the villagers, pleading with him to just do it. Do what their ceremony demanded. They wanted – needed – strangers to do their dirty work for them.

"_It's not the damn sacrifice that keeps your people protected! It's the agreement of sending half your village to be the main course every one-hundred years. One is superstition, the other is insanity."_

After the child sleeps, John rises, and leans against the wall, waiting. When the guard peers in and gestures at the pistol, John closes his eyes. He pulls the pistol free from the holster, and levels it at the small head. By his hand, or the Wraith – he knows which he'd prefer, but all the same, John knows he's given up his soul, trading one life for three, in the brief moment it takes to pull the trigger. There will be no forgiveness.

**V.**

"So, I like baseball, Ferris Wheels, and things that go faster than a hundred miles per hour – though I do, from time to time, like the slow rides – with the right person," John says conversationally, knowing he's rambling. "What about you? You look like a kid who would enjoy Space Mountain."

The solemn face regards him quietly for a moment - confused, before shaking no. The tattered stuffed bear-like animal, brown fur rubbed away in spots, was clutched tightly in the thin arms. It reminds Sheppard of bedtimes and pajamas, cookies and milk, and exciting stories his mom read to him when he was little. He smiles, but it's tight, and painful, because this little one has never known the ignorance of danger, the safe assurance of counting the days to your next birthday. John knows the innocence was lost years ago, long before he gated to this world. "Guess you don't talk much, but that's okay – I hear enough talking every day. This guy I work with, he talks enough for both of us. His name is Rodney. I know, funny name, but he's my friend."

The small chin wobbles, and the eyes scrunch together, the face betraying the meltdown about to arrive.

"No, no – don't cry. Please don't cry. You'll make me cry." John thinks maybe he's not joking as much as he means too. He's never been good with crying kids. Searching for a towel, or a blanket, or something – he imagines Kleenex hasn't made it out this far, John slides closer to the child. Coming up with nothing, he settles reluctantly for his t-shirt, pulling it free from his waistband, and dabs the wet dirty trails from the small flushed cheeks. "It's okay, see, I'm not crying," he soothes, pulling the thin shoulders closer and wishing Teyla was here. "Really, it's not that bad, I promise. Look, we can be friends, too." Except it was that bad. "I'll do all the talking for us, deal? And I'll even tell you a story." John thinks quickly about a popular kid's story from back home. "Once upon a time – didn't you know every good fairy tale starts with 'once upon a time'? And they always end 'happily ever after'." Though he knew they weren't living a fairy tale.

The rosy-red lips curl in a weak smile, though the face portrays skepticism. Thin wisps of hair move along with the fragile head. The child can't be more than six years old, if that. Maybe four. "There was a space pilot, and all he wanted to do was fly – but there was a jealous cowboy, and he threw the space pilot out the window…and then, the cowboy's friends were angry at him for doing something like that, and they threw him out the window, too - " John realizes he's botching this story thing. "And to sum up a long, fun story, the space pilot and the cowboy become friends on the way back home, and live happily ever after…with puppies."

Later, John paces the small room, needing to walk off excess energy. He starts talking, why, he's not sure. "Not much of a life out here – but I guess you know that. Kids back home got it good, and they don't even realize it. I didn't realize it." He knows he's talking to himself more than the child. Trying to find an answer – a solution that doesn't end in death. His. The child's. His team. And John's coming up empty with every idea. "What, with the Wraith hanging over your head – guess it's a long way from worrying about coloring on the walls with permanent marker or swinging on the bar like a monkey in your closet and being caught." He knows he won't find the answers, because his solutions are limited to what he was given. John wishes they hadn't given him anything. "I got grounded once for that," John says wryly, remembering how pissed his Dad had been to find the rod broken and stuffed behind his dirty laundry. When the child frowns, his smile slips. The child doesn't understand what it means; the frame of reference wasn't there. "Grounded – punished. Bad. I couldn't sit for a week." The frown smoothes away as the child makes a personal connection to the definition.

It was a big mistake, coming here. Teyla had warned them, but they needed the ZPM. She'd told them that the Kessel people were not to be trusted, that they had odd customs and were a secretive people. If it hadn't been for the damn promise of power and safety for the city - if. One ZPM wasn't enough. They needed more. As his eyes catch the child's, he knows he should've listened, because then he wouldn't be here. A ZPM wasn't worth this agony. John looks away. The child would still be here even if he wasn't, and someone else other than him would do the ceremony in his place.

There are no windows in the small dark mud hut, but he knows it's still night. A flat grass roof to keep the weather out, a small bed with a mattress made of straw for sleeping, and a hard-packed dirt floor finishes the meager home. The yellowed bamboo door lets the chill wind whistle through the cracks. It's frail, but John knows the burly guards on the other side are not, especially armed with P-90's, courtesy of Earth, Atlantis and stupid trusting Colonels that regret ever setting foot on this planet. He realizes the child is tracing his path, back and forth – four steps across, those wide brown almond eyes drinking every movement in.

Smiling again, more honestly but sadder this time, John walks nearer to the child and kneels. The sober eyes return his stare, unblinking and brave. He wishes he could be as stoic and accepting. "I guess you've seen a lot in your short life. It shouldn't have to be that way. You should be eating cotton candy and dreaming about ponies, maybe even boys in a few years." His right hand moves to gently brush back the unruly bangs of dirty blonde hair. "Elizabeth would eat you up like a chocolate bar. She's got a thing for sweets." It's only after he says it, that he realizes how bad the analogy is.

This time the child noticeably reacts, and he supposes not everything is lost in the translation. Disgust at the comparison wrinkles the pale forehead - the small nose scrunches, and John almost laughs. At least the child hadn't screamed. There for a moment, the kid looked almost typical instead of haunted. "It's a figure of speech. I meant – she'd like you, a lot." John knows every one on Atlantis would like this child, including himself. He thinks he already does. And he hates more because of it.

"_The sacrifice awaits you, Colonel Sheppard."_

"_Sacrifice? We didn't agree to any sacrifice -"_

"_The sacrifice is not you or your people, Colonel…it is one of ours."_

As if it made it all better. John remembers handing over their weapons at the start of the ceremony. It was part of their tradition, a common courtesy. A feast, they'd said. To honor their Gods. But their Gods were Wraith, and the honor culminated in an act that he couldn't wrap his mind around. Didn't want to wrap his mind around. It'd been obvious then that he'd allowed his team to waltz into dangerous ground, and he'd stood, waving at his team to follow suit, hoping for a quick retreat. John should've known better.

"_We need to let our leader know that everything has gone…well. When we get back, we'll be more than happy to finish the ceremony."_

"_I'm sorry, Colonel. Once the ceremony is underway, there is no delaying."_

"_We can't do what you're asking."_

"_You have no choice."_

He'd been sorry, too. Especially when he'd realized they were screwed. No weapons, no way out, and only death offered options. Sighing, John notices the small heart-shaped face tilts curiously towards him, and tiny fingers reach for the black pistol on his thigh. Jerking backwards from the unwanted contact, John reacts, angry – at himself, at the situation. "Don't touch that, it's very dangerous. It could hurt you." The stupidity of his statement isn't lost on him, but the fingers pull away guiltily, as if touched by ashen death itself, and the child shakes with scared emotion. It strikes him, the painful juxtaposition of innocence and cold reality. And he's helpless against it all.

"No – don't…I'm sorry -" God. Everything was going wrong. He doesn't want the child to cry again, because of him – but even as he says it, John knows the kid should; has every right to cry, he only wishes he could. John rises enough from his aching knees to turn, and sits beside the diminutive body, wishing he could fix this. "I don't know why I'm telling you to stop," he says, surprised at his admission. "Maybe you've got the right idea in the first place."

A small hand creeps tentatively across his sore knee, and John looks away from his scuffled, dirt-laden boots, searching the little face for an explanation of the hesitant touch. This time the head nods yes slowly, and a shy smile breaks through like a reticent sun in a sky scudded with heavy clouds of gray. But it only drives the hurt in like a jackhammer, harder and deeper, the sunbeams of hope turning to stakes of guilt. Slowly, John covers the frail hand with his own, dwarfing the child's and feeling the combined warmth. "God forgive me. I wish there was another way out," he whispers, even as he knows he can't forgive himself. He only hoped his team could forgive whatever he does.

"_Either way, someone dies. By your hand, or ours. If you fail to perform the sacrifice, know that your team shall pay the price. It is a grave dishonor, and ill, that you do our people – the sacrifice has kept our people protected for many thousands of years. We will extract payment for the crime you cause against our future generations."_

"_You son of a bitch, you harm one hair on their heads, and you'll regret ever knowing we existed -"_

"_Do what you've been asked to do, and no one needs to be harmed."_

"_Except your sacrifice – death falls under my definition of 'harmed'."_

"_The child was born under the fate. She died when she was conceived."_

They gave him his pistol back. The clip emptied but for one bullet. And the real kicker of the situation was what John saw in the eyes of the villagers, pleading with him to just do it. Do what their ceremony demanded. They wanted – needed – strangers to do their dirty work for them. He couldn't even pick out the faces of her parents.

"_It's not the damn sacrifice that keeps your people protected! It's the agreement of sending half your village to be the main course every one-hundred years. One is superstition, the other is insanity."_

"_Do it, or not. The fate of their lives rests in your hands. Take him!"_

The tides of fate could be brutal, crushing a soul against the rocks of hell – but occasionally, fate offers up hope, and salvation. John's hopes were gone, and his choices along with them. The pistol was cold, and beautiful - mesmerizing. As he raises it, towards what end he's not sure, the bamboo door busts inward, and Ronon stands there tall and menacingly. "Sheppard."

Numb fingers release the trigger. "Took you long enough."

The runner shrugs, and pulls his body back outside, shouting, "He's fine!"

With steps not quite solid, John walks till he's next to the sleeping child and kneels, lifting the little girl into his arms. She stirs, and turns into his chest, clutching the stuffed toy tighter in her safe embrace. "I told you it'd be okay." Letting his face fall into her hair, John doesn't feel his tears as he whispers, "No one dies today." And he lets his team lead him back to the Stargate, clutching the small body, his pistol with the single unused bullet still strapped to his thigh.

**The End**


End file.
